Fruits of Gossip
by alp crim
Summary: In addition, they were admiring his collarbones. His collarbones, for Merlin's sake! It couldn't have been something normal; his hair, his eyes, his bloody ears even! It just had to be some obscure part of his physique. DMHG
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Property of J.K. Rowling.

**Fruits of Gossip**

Hermione Granger directed her gaze towards the chalkboard at the front of the classroom, her back ramrod straight, and willed her eyes to remain there for the rest of the period. Snape had just begun today's lesson, and she tried in vain to focus on the patronizing silk of his voice. It was ridiculous, really, just how much effort she had to put into _not_ looking at that dimwitted prat.

So what if that wanker had matured into a walking Adonis? That didn't change the fact that one could clean his mouth out with some industrial-strength detergent, and it would still spew some of the foulest vulgarities ever known to man. She vaguely realized she was being a tad harsh, but her temper was quietly flaring, a conflagration ready to spontaneously consume a forest at the drop of a pin (she wished it would just go ahead and consume Malfoy).

Lips pursed in a no-nonsense manner, she continued her futile attempts to take notes. Never again would she opt to partake in Lavender and Parvati's girly gossip time. The last time she had joined their lewd conversations, they had discussed one suave flirt – that sable-haired, bright-eyed Blaise Zabini that Ginny was constantly pining after. They had gone on and on about how indescribably _sexy_ his hands were. Parvati had sighed dreamily as she recalled long, maple fingers, beautiful and masculine in a way only a girl could appreciate.

When the topic of what that enticingly handsome boy could do with those fingers was broached, Hermione had excused herself with a slight blush and wandered off to the library. She was one of a select few who knew that Blaise Zabini, playboy extraordinaire, had a habit of using his striking pianist hands to bend the old, dusty spines of ancient tomes after dinner. That she was headed towards her sanctuary to subtly observe was a definite bonus; she knew the layout of the library like the she knew how to read.

And, admittedly, Lavender and Parvati had been right. That boy _did_ have quite the set of hands; she didn't blame Ginny one bit for having it bad.

This time, however, she drew the line. The focus of their dialogue was just off limits to her; hell, she could very well say he was the bane of her existence and not feel guilty in the least. She had nearly died choking on the slice of shepherd's pie pilfered for her after-dinner snack when Lavender had spoken his name.

In addition, they were admiring his _collarbones_. His collarbones, for Merlin's sake! It couldn't have been something normal; his hair, his eyes, his bloody ears even! It just had to be some obscure part of his physique, like his Achilles heel or something random like that. She almost huffed aloud in a mixture of disgust and frustration as she continued to copy Snape's chicken-scratch handwriting, remembering just in time that she was still in the middle of Potions.

Hermione didn't want to think about Draco Malfoy's anything, least of all his damned collarbones.

She just couldn't help herself. His collarbones were capricious enough to be intriguing, unlike his Achilles heel. That they were always hidden beneath his school robes and his school uniform represented a test, and the Gryffindor (and the woman) in her wanted desperately to rise to the challenge of unearthing these supposedly sexy collarbones.

And there it was – the reason her eyes hadn't moved from Snape's boring Potions notes on gillyweed and its many uses, even though she could already recite at least ten from the top of her head. Malfoy had caught her staring at him from nearly across the classroom. She had been covertly trying to see if she could catch a glimpse of his collarbones through a lucky shift of fabric, and he'd seen her!

Hermione willed her blush to disperse as she wrote even faster, making it a point not to look back over at him for the rest of the period. Perhaps he hadn't noticed; perhaps he would shrug, let it go, and walk away.

Perhaps Ernie Macmillan didn't like boys.

Hermione Granger wasn't called the cleverest witch of her age for nothing. She knew it was hopeless the second Snape dismissed them and swept out of the room. In her half-frantic movements to get everything off her desk and into her book bag, she had managed to knock her open pot of ink onto the floor.

Her heart sank as she grabbed everything and shoved it into her already bulging satchel, momentarily watching as the ink coursed through the crevices of the stone floor. The dark blue liquid was soaking into niche in the aged rock, and she wanted to die. In addition, the room had nearly emptied by the time she had her wand out to clean up the mess, and now she was practically alone with the last person she would've chosen to see.

"Big mess you made there, Granger." He was hovering a few feet away, hip leaned casually against a desk. She tried not to notice the rakish set of his jaw or the jaunty curve of his mouth, choosing instead to glare at the spilt ink. _Now is not the time_, she chided herself in annoyance. _Remember, walking Adonis, talking arsehole._ He smirked at her mockingly, but his eyes were dancing, glinting like steel as they caught the light in the classroom.

"Can I help you?" Hermione centered her attention on scourgifying the ground a handful of times to make sure the ink was no longer visible. She didn't need Snape giving her detention the next day because he somehow found out that the unsightly stain on his floor was her doing. Plus, her timetable for tomorrow was filled to the brim, meaning she would probably miss dinner if given detention. She stared miserably at her failed attempt to take care of her mess, wracking her brain for any more cleaning spells that would fix it.

"Perhaps you'll answer a question for me." The blonde was tapping a pale finger to his clean-shaven chin when she leveled him with a shrewd look. The only thing she wanted to do at the moment was snatch up her things and run, but the Gryffindor in her told her she couldn't back down (and the woman in her told her she had to see this out).

"What'll you do for me?"

He looked genuinely surprised for a brief moment, but soon enough it was her turn. He straight out laughed at her, a light, disarming snort and chortle that she found strangely charming. _Nothing about Draco Malfoy is charming_, she scolded herself. She had to silently repeat that thought when he opened his arms in an accommodating gesture, looking every bit the Adonis as his head bowed slightly in a sarcastic tilt and his hair fell into his eyes.

"You may ask anything of me."

Her brow furrowed as she took a moment to consider his offer. Malfoy was being surprisingly civil towards her for the time being, and she figured she should take advantage of his good mood while it lasted. Slipping her wand back into the pocket of her robes, she reiterated, "Anything?"

"That is what I said."

Well, if that was the case. "Ask away, then."

He was regarding her with that amused spark in his eye again, and she lifted her chin defiantly in reply. "Tell me then, Granger," he drawled, moving from the desk he'd been leaning on to plop into another that was closer to her, "did you enjoy ogling me during class today?"

Hermione felt her blush all the way to her curly roots, and she sputtered in indignation. "I certainly did not!" The nerve of him! She'd all but forgotten about it with her dribbling inkpot and his spontaneous bout of civility.

"But you were ogling me, yes?" She wished she hadn't put away her wand earlier; right now, she wanted nothing more than to hex Draco bloody Malfoy and his pretty bloody face into the next millennium. She didn't have the option of reaching for it again, however. He was languidly twirling his own in between his fingers, as if daring her to just try. And he was laughing at her again.

Clearing her throat, she primly smoothed the front of her school robes as she picked off an imaginary piece of lint. What she wouldn't give for one of those Muggle Twix bars right now. "I believe you've used up your question, Malfoy. It's my turn."

He only arched a pale, winged eyebrow at her, his wand still spinning like a slow motion baton in his hand. Malfoy looked so cocky, settled in the chair with his other hand supporting the back of his head, elbow bent. Long legs stretched out from beneath the desk, ankles crossed, and she had to quash the urge to give him a good, solid kick to the shin.

"I want to see your collarbones," she told him, mustering all the sincerity she possibly could as she beamed at his confused expression. He was squinting at her like she'd gone mad, and she was trying with all her might to show him that she was totally serious about her request. After all, he'd said she could ask _anything_ of him. He hadn't stipulated that she'd had to ask him an actual question in return.

Finally, after seemingly coming to the conclusion that she wasn't playing at a joke, he shook his head. "Leave it to you to ask something so absurdly bizarre." Regardless, he opened his robes and nimbly loosened his green- and silver-striped necktie, dropping it into the chair of the desk behind him. Off came his gray sweater vest, and she watched in rising anticipation as his fingers rose to undo the first few buttons of his white, long-sleeved Oxford.

Hermione wanted to slap him when he paused to shoot her a sultry look from beneath his white-blond fringe. He seemed to notice her impatience, and the time he took to unfasten those top three buttons was nothing if not torturous. The image her mind had conjured of his collarbones had haunted her since she'd heard about them a week and a half ago, and she was getting more anxious by the second.

Malfoy had only managed to disengage the very top button of his shirt, and she had to suppress the urge to kick him in the shin again while ripping her hair out in the process. She supposed he wouldn't appreciate a blossoming bruise, and she didn't quite want a bald spot anywhere on her head; not that her hair would have any problem covering it up.

"Antsy, Granger?"

And that was it. Hermione Granger had finally had enough of this slow, agonizing tease, and she made sure Malfoy knew it as she stomped her way over to stand directly in front of him in his half-reclined position in his desk.

"Move aside, you're too slow," she declared briskly, batting his hands away from his collar. He looked up at her with that same mocking smirk she'd become so accustomed to over the years, although there was a lot less mocking and a lot more smirking being done at the moment; as if he knew she would take it upon herself to free his collarbones from the confines of his clothes if he'd bided his time.

Within seconds, she'd done away with the last of those two blasted buttons, and she huffed in indignation. Fair was fair; he had asked her a question, and she had asked something in return. Her fingers fluttered over his pale skin in a flash of hesitation before she pulled at his collar, trying to expose the believed beauty of his collarbones. She really just had to know if it was true or not – the 'why' of it be damned – and she just could not see! The collar of his shirt was still blocking her view no matter how insistently she tugged, and she could feel herself becoming frustrated again.

"Three buttons not enough for you, love? How's four?" She gave him a sharp look as he undid the fourth button. "Or five?" Another came loose. His shirt was beginning to open up, and she could see the rise and fall of his lean chest with each breath that he took. She scrutinized his collarbones critically, trying to see what was so eye-catching about them that Lavender and Parvati were up until the wee hours of the morning discussing them. They weren't anything spectacular, she surmised; not awful to look at, but not much to inspect either.

She could also see the two long scars that ran parallel to each other, diagonally across his chest just beneath those esteemed collarbones, however. Her fingers traced the path of the longest one, down the hard slope of his chest until it ended halfway down the flat, muscular planes of his stomach. Hermione jolted when a pale hand closed around her own, and she met a gaze of molten silver with wide eyes. Malfoy was sitting up now, no longer lounging in the uncomfortable school chair, his shirt parted to reveal a _most_ tantalizing view of his upper torso.

"I – I'm sorry," she stuttered, staring in abject horror as the wizard she'd practically been fondling stood from his chair, her hand still in his grasp.

"I didn't know you fancied me, Granger," he stated offhandedly, but his voice was low, and she felt fire coursing through her veins. It started at her face and moved down to her chest, and she knew that if she'd been naked, her entire body would've been blushing beet red.

"I don't!" Her tone was defensive, and she continued pulling at her hand, desperately willing him to let her go so she could run and hide for the next fortnight. She could imagine it now; she would only take meals in the Gryffindor common; Harry and Ron could bring her assignments—

Malfoy growled and used her captured hand to yank her closer, his head bowing as his other hand grappled for her other wrist. She hadn't thought she could flush any redder, but she was definitely proven wrong. His breath was on the shell of her ear, and she involuntary shuddered at the feeling. He pulled her flush against him, and she squeaked.

"Horrible liar, you are," he murmured into her hair, and he placed both of her hands firmly on his chest, fingertips splayed out over those collarbones she had so nonsensically wanted to see. She felt like the palms of her hands were being scalded. Hermione wet her lips as the fire in her body began to pool somewhere uncomfortably low in her belly, and she tried again to push away. Unsurprisingly, he didn't budge.

"Look, I—" She locked eyes with him, and her words died in her throat. His face was so unbelievably close to hers that she could feel the warmth of his breath against the tip of her lightly freckled nose, and – though she would deny this fact until the day she died – Hermione Granger went weak at the knees.

Draco felt her legs give out and grinned outright, bumping noses with the brunette witch as he angled her onto the surface of a nearby desk. It was the least that could happen to her after she ogled _and _groped him; all in one class period no less, and he told her just as much. His well-placed jibe seemed to stir her sleeping Gryffindor, and he went cross-eyed staring at the finger she jabbed in his face.

"Just you listen, Malfoy—"

There was no pause, no hesitation, no second thought as Draco Malfoy dipped his head and caught his classmate, cleverest witch of their age, with her mouth wide open; undoubtedly halting what would've been a long, drawn-out lecture on how Granger's inability to stand had nothing to do with him and more to do with so-and-so and something of a familiar nature.

His tongue slipped boldly into the cavern of her mouth and teased her with long, sure strokes. He paused only to tug at her bottom lip with his teeth, plunging into her mouth again afterwards like a man gasping for air.

As Draco pulled back, he couldn't help but admire his handiwork. Granger was perched somewhat precariously atop a wooden desk, eyes half-lidded, her pretty pink mouth wet and swollen from his kisses. Her skirt was hiked up enough for him to see a hint of white cotton panties, and her breath was coming out in pants. _Sexy little bookworm_, he thought in approval.

When her eyes opened fully again and she seemed to come to her senses, Draco pressed an openmouthed kiss to her ear and grinned roguishly at her. "Draco," he told her, his clear, gray eyes dancing. Ghosting a finger up her thigh, he almost laughed at the silent opening and closing of her mouth; she looked like a fish out of water.

"Library tomorrow, half-past seven, sharp. Be there."

And in no time, he was dressed and gone. She touched a finger to her lips, their swollenness the only evidence of her encounter with the bane of her existence; that and the green- and silver-striped necktie draped over a chair not far from her.

Adjusting her skirt, Hermione picked it up and considered it. Then, she stuffed it into the pocket of her robes next to her wand and grabbed her book bag, her empty pot of ink that had been left lying on the floor, and her Potions book.

Perhaps she should return his necktie? Oh, but she would enjoy it so much more if she made him work for it. "Draco," she tested aloud, allowing his name to roll off her tongue.

Hermione smiled to herself as she exited the room, spilt ink forgotten. If only Draco knew what he'd gotten himself into.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Property of J.K. Rowling.

**Fruits of Gossip**

_Winter wonderland._ That was the first thought to come to Hermione's mind as she trekked her way through the gently sloping terrain. Her gloved hands were settled deeply in the pockets of her magically enhanced cloak, and she puffed visible breaths in time with the crunching of the snow beneath her heels. The Christmas holidays were nearing, and she could feel the merriment of the season in the stinging, Scottish air.

Brown curls gave way to the wind's fickle will, any semblance of order having disappeared the moment the witch set foot outside. Now, her tresses were at the spontaneously vindictive mercy of Mother Nature, as was her exposed face; nose and cheeks tinged red by the ruthless whiplashing of what she recognized as the beginnings of a snowstorm.

Still, she traipsed on, instinctively making her own path towards the Black Lake and ignoring the white misting that made everything in every direction look the same. Two weeks had passed since her queer encounter with a certain Draco Malfoy. Her fingers twined around the green- and silver-striped necktie tucked safely away in her cloak, stroking the silk of the fabric as it had become her habit.

She had refused to go to the library at half-past seven the day after. Her renowned Gryffindor courage had deserted her in the last few hours as she contemplated what the decision of willingly placing herself in Malfoy's (pale, strong) hands would really entail. Hermione didn't know a peck about him – other than Harry's insistence that he was a Death Eater. Allowing herself to play with fire like that meant she had a possibility of being burned.

And so, instead of heading for her place of refuge that night, she had sought out her friends in the Great Hall. Their scheduled rendezvous had been in the middle of dinner, after all. She had only seen glimpses of Malfoy in the halls since; the time he chose to take his meals seemed to change sporadically.

Hermione finally reached the edge of the Black Lake and plopped herself down on a fallen tree limb. Her eyes scoured the surface of the murky waters, looking for an unnatural ripple that could be caused by something other than the wind. She was curious as to whether or not the Giant Squid would reveal itself today, although the chances of that were probably on a scale of zilch to none. The creature was probably resting at the bottom of the lake, leagues away from the brutal chill of the wind.

Wisely so, she noted as a particularly strong gust forcibly tangled her hair some more. Merlin knew she was thankful for magic at times like these, shallow and petty as they seem. Without the glamour charms she'd read up on in Ginny's copy of _Witch Weekly_, her hair would've continued to rival that of a lion's mane for who knew how long. Muggle hair products just took too much time and too much effort.

Hermione sat there a while longer, simply taking time to drink in the panorama of white-crested trees and snow-laden grounds. Shuffling her feet, she slid her heel against the snow and unearthed a wet patch of brown. The cold was beginning to set in as the magic of her cloak tapered off, but she didn't want to go inside yet. When she couldn't suppress her shivers anymore, she made to stand – only to halt at the sound of grinding snow.

Someone was coming up behind her, and she harshly reprimanded herself for being caught outside Hogwarts alone in times like these. Stamping down her rising panic, she was up in a second. "_Expelliarmus!_"

"_Protego._" A hemisphere of translucent blue shimmered in the air between them, and golden brown collided with steely gray. Hermione blinked, then scowled when she recognized the platinum fringe and the impeccably tailored robes. She had successfully dodged him since the incident (no doubt aided by Malfoy himself), averting her eyes when necessary, seating herself on the opposite end of the classroom in an attempt to make learning less awkward.

"Can't you take a hint?"

She felt a flash of annoyance when he raised his brow, an expression she was confident he was privy to at the slight smirk that curved his pliant mouth.

"Avoiding me, Granger?" He seemed to be inspecting the stitching on his undoubtedly expensive leather gloves, his face the perfect countenance of innocent curiosity. "Why would you do a thing such as that?"

"What's it to you," she retorted, watching him warily as she finally chose to lower her wand. She didn't mention the fact that _he_ was the one conspicuously missing from mealtimes because that would've meant she took the time to notice (and possibly the time to care). He shot her an amused look, having pocketed his own wand a few moments after shielding himself.

"You didn't show." She heard the accusation in his voice and mentally checked her sudden urge to apologize. This was Draco _blasted_ Malfoy, she reminded herself, scoffing. She didn't owe him anything, let alone an apology.

Rubbing her gloved hands together in order to garner some warmth from the friction, she shivered again as a nasty breeze licked at her clothed but uncloaked ankles. Malfoy didn't seem like he expected a verbal response from her, yet he watched her in a queer way as she stuck her hands back into her pockets and hunched her shoulders in an effort to ward off the chill.

They stood like that for a while, engulfed in discomfited silence; she attempting to stave off frostbite, he merely watching her with that perplexing gaze. Then, without warning, Malfoy unclasped the front of his cloak and, in a flare of easy grace, shrugged it off and tossed it in her direction. Hermione blinked in surprise, thrown staggeringly off guard. She barely caught the heavy fabric before it crumpled onto the snowy ground.

"What …"

When she looked up questioningly, he was leaving. She could only make out the wisp of his white-blonde head and a glimpse of his black and green school robes before he vanished into the tree line. Had Malfoy just … lent her his cloak?

"Oi, wait!"

Choosing to decipher the implications of the Slytherin's actions at a later time (in a warmer place), the girl swathed herself with the woolen cloak and took off towards the castle, hoping to waylay him before he reached the doors leading inside. She didn't want his big, expensive cloak, nor did she want his charity (she ignored the green- and silver-striped slip that was burning a hole through her pocket). She definitely didn't want that unfamiliar scent (that could only belong to him) of sage, sandalwood, and a mixture she couldn't quite figure out invading her nose.

It reminded her of cool, autumn weather, filled with notes of roaring fireplaces and pumpkin pies baking in the oven. His fragrance smelled homey (although she rather wished for him to smell homely), and it was nothing if not attractive. It was the kind of heady cologne that made her want to bury her nose into a man's neck, her face into his chest. Something low clenched at the thought of doing such a thing with Malfoy, and Hermione resolutely quickened her pace. She was going to return this stupid cloak to him whether he wanted it back or not.

Something told her she wouldn't be able to catch him, and it was right. Her heart sank when she finally managed to throw open one of the heavy, engraved doors, just in time to see a flash of flaxen hair slip out of sight once more as Malfoy descended the stairs. He was undoubtedly headed for the dungeons – off-limits to the likes of her.

Immediately after dinner, she told herself doggedly. She wasn't about to let this cloak sit on her bed or in her dresser and stain her freshly laundered clothes and sheets with that maddening (exhilarating) smell. It felt like Malfoy had unleashed his proverbial pheromones and turned her insides to jelly in the process.

In a split-second decision, Hermione turned on her heel and hastened up the moving staircases, intent on making it to her room without accidentally bumping into Harry or Ron. They would know in a heartbeat that the cloak she was currently carrying draped over her forearm didn't belong to her, and that was definitely a scenario she hoped to avoid. When she finally reached her room without mishap, she pulled out her book bag and uncharacteristically upended all of its contents onto her bed. Only once Malfoy's cloak was securely tucked away, hidden by the flap of her satchel, did she breathe a sigh of relief.

It was just a matter of waiting now. Dinner wouldn't begin for another hour and a half, and she doubted Malfoy would be wandering the halls by happenstance just so she could have the fortunate opportunity to shove his cloak back into his hands and take off in the opposite direction. Hermione smiled wryly at the thought and looked at the clock again.

She could read up on her Ancient Runes … or she could take a bath. Not just a bath, she mused in delight, a _bath_ in the Prefect's bathroom (she almost yipped in glee). Taking long, luxurious baths were one of her favorite pastimes – up there with reading by firelight and making lists. Organizing things (alphabetically, chronologically, whatever) was also deemed favorable.

Her feet automatically led her to the ornate door, a whispered password allowing her entry, and soon enough Hermione was sinking into an Olympic-sized tub with enough suds to clean even a full-grown troll. She sighed in pleasure as the hot water enveloped her, melting away her stress, freeing her from each and every thought she'd ever had about Draco sodding Malfoy.

Instead, she thought of Ginny and that (hot piece of ass) Blaise Zabini. It was impossible not to notice the juicy looks exchanged between the two; across dinner tables, no less. When confronted, the youngest Weasley had flushed red and smiled sheepishly. Hermione didn't blame her, but she couldn't help but giggle again as she recalled the look on Ginny's face.

After confirming that neither Harry nor Ron had detected the raging sexual tension in the air (the lunkheads), she had taken a vow of silence on the matter. Not that she would've snitched on Ginny anyway, but she understood that it was just a measure of reassurance.

"_I made out with him,"_ the redheaded Gryffindor had blurted once she was sure her friend would keep her secret. Hermione's eyebrows had disappeared into her hairline, and Ginny had begun fidgeting with the hem of her gray woolen skirt, eyes downcast in embarrassment.

"It's okay, girl," Hermione sighed, reluctantly touching a finger to her mouth once more. "I let a sulky, no-good Slytherin kiss me, too." And boy, it'd been hard to explain to Ginny why her clandestine relationship with Blaise Zabini was all right without mentioning her own experience with that wretched blonde bombshell.

An annoyed sound escaped her lips when she realized her thoughts had returned to him again. Why couldn't he just leave her alone?

Malfoy was a prat and a bloody wanker, two titles he'd probably earned the day he learned to speak. Nevertheless, Hermione sunk lower in her bubble-ridden bath until the water lapped serenely against her upper neck and – against all the judgment and reason and logic she often prided herself of – remembered just how damned sexy Draco Malfoy could be.

Author's note: I know this chapter was shorter than the first, and for that I apologize. Also, if everyone who subscribed to this story were to review, it could possibly motivate me to write faster in the future … Ahem. Next chapter will most likely be written from Draco's perspective. Thanks for reading!

Chapter note: Draco's cologne description is taken from Calvin Klein's _Obsession for Men_, which doesn't smell quite as good as the description would have you believe.


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